


Talk About the War with Me

by Hexate (oppressa)



Series: Now I Know I'm Falling in Deep [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Family Feels, Ice Skating, Languages, M/M, Parenting Igor, Recovery, Winter fic, complicated relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/Hexate
Summary: Hvitserk in Kiev, waiting for Spring.
Relationships: Ivar/Hvitserk, past Hvitserk/Ubbe
Series: Now I Know I'm Falling in Deep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140578
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Talk About the War with Me

However welcome Oleg says he is, however impressive the grand palace, the golden crosses everywhere he looks are subtle reminders of why he can never get comfortable. They aren't as large or as stark as those he'd seen in England, more lines in them, still a cross is a cross. Had Ivar been inclined to make a rather less favourable case in front of the ruler of the city, _this is my treacherous brother Hvitserk who raised an army against me, a gift to your campaign from the old Gods_ , he really would have had grounds to hate the sight of it. But as it is, as a necessity of being a powerless guest, he's getting used to it. After all, in York, Christians did not intimidate him in the least, when a great many things were different.

So he follows Ivar's lead, holds their stares like Ivar has returned open staring his entire life, until they look away, figuring their curiosity best forgotten. Adopting their strangely decorated manner of dress is easier than he thought, after pulling off his singed clothes still smelling of smoke and Ivar's reaction of shock at his naked body that he's seen any number of times.

“All Father, Hvitserk, I feel faint just looking at you.”

He knows he should take advantage of every hospitality he can, leave Ivar to play games with Oleg and his wife. He's still entirely dependent on him to navigate this place, the way Ivar was on him to cart him around when they were younger. As the lightheadedness from a diet of eating nothing much other than mushrooms subsides, his relief at being spared an outcast's frozen, un-noted death often comes up against the feeling that Ubbe was right the first time and throwing in with Ivar is akin to having thrown himself off of a cliff. Even if he didn't have that much of a choice between the two.

“Did you consider killing me in the woods?” He asks, not lifting his head up from his arms where they're rested on the edge of a balcony except to wipe his cold nose on them. Ivar stirs against the supporting beam next to him, dislodging a host of snowflakes that had settled on his coat into the biting wind.

“For what? Revenge? Prestige? I think that would have been fairly petty of me given the pathetic state you were in.”

Hvitserk resists the urge to hit out at him, and shrugs. “It was a chance.”

Ivar laughs. “So? You're saying you would have taken it, if you were me?”

“No, I hoped...” He had hoped for something other than to lose himself in darkness for the first time since finding Ivar had fled and denied him his own retribution, to be accepted for the mess he is, to have somebody approve of what he'd done, rather than want to tear his heart out for it. “I hoped for us to be close again, like this, I don't know why.”

“That's the same reason I stooped to take pity on you, dear brother. Now you know what it's like to be hated.”

He sighs, looking over his shoulder before hunching closer. “Just tell me you're not going to get us put to death anyway.”

Something makes him think Oleg might be more inventive than Bjorn, and would absolutely go through with it even if the amount of agony involved ran the risk of being judged well by their gods. On the other hand maybe he wouldn't have to wait that long, tied up and shivering against the post, blood crusting in his nostrils, spit drying in his dirty, matted hair.

Ivar traces the scar on his face from the arrow fired out of spite from the crowd gathered to watch him burn, with so much anger on his behalf.

“Of course I'm not. You don't have to worry about anything like that, just be friendly, be open –”

“Be careful what I say?”

Ivar rolls his eyes, as though remembering Hvitserk's propensity to challenge his wisdom. “Above all, don't interrupt. I know what I'm doing.”

As for killing Ivar, if he had a chance like it, the desire wasn't there as strongly as he had felt it upon seeing him again in the flesh, realising it was his own mind tormenting him with the horror of things he had allowed to happen, hurting him like the serpents living in the roots of Yggdrasil. Most of it is knowing that Ivar is as haunted by Freydis as he was of Thora, seeing her in the Princess even after laying their son's bones beside her body. Knowing that Ivar is broken, too, by what he's responsible for, arguably far worse than he is, perhaps that's punishment enough. It isn't exactly forgiveness – he doesn't know where fate will take them in the end, but for now he's content with the peace between them.

As time goes by he begins to feel slightly less like an outsider. Ivar is his linchpin, holding him together. He starts to eat again, to stretch, building up his strength in anticipation of Spring and, after some urging from his brother, to come and explore the city with him. It's cold though, colder than home, probably colder than Skadi's breasts before she chose Njord to warm them. Sometimes nothing could entice him out into the snow, apart from Ivar wanting to show him things.

One day they are in the market place, and his attention is caught by a group of men nearby talking in their heavy voices and laughing about something. Although he usually waits for Ivar to translate anything said to them directly, he nudges him surreptitiously, distracting him from dealing with a stall trader to ask what they're saying.

Ivar looks surprised. “In York, you never wanted to learn...”

“This is different. These are our allies. I have to understand.”

Ivar nods, mildly impressed. “You have changed, brother.”

“So have you.”

He takes a moment, as if thinking about it, then smiles wickedly. “Get Igor to teach you.”

The only thing he's been minded to ask of the boy so far has been _but why in Odin's name are you not learning how to fight?_ However, he softens his stance after Igor agrees enthusiastically, speaking slowly and making obvious gestures for his benefit while Hvitserk listens, brow wrinkling. He thinks he doesn't have a gift for this like Ivar, or the inclination like Ubbe, and yet bit by bit the unfamiliar tongue starts making sense to him, sounds turning into words. With that knowledge he manages to pick up on more of what's going on around them. Eventually he dares to try and speak to other people. It makes his heart lift when they respond even if the way he expresses things isn't perfect, smiling patiently at his hesitation, their faces seeming friendlier every time.

Ivar, who didn't expect anywhere near this level of success, proposes a contest that they will only speak the Rus tongue to each other which the first one of them to forget will lose. It lasts a day and a half before he has to resort to somehow sneaking up on him and getting his hand inside the neck of his shirt before Hvitserk can stop him, crushing a fistful of snow right against his chest, stealing his breath, dropping down cold and wet on his stomach, making him swear thoughtlessly and break his promise. Ivar laughs as he curses him to all the Aesir, one after the other. Igor's eyes widen, and then he wants to be able to imitate everything Hvitserk said.

Apparently skating on the pools that have frozen over around the outer walls is a skill more fitting for a prince of the Rus than sword and shield-craft. He scoffs on hearing of this but, if he's honest, there is something fascinating, almost relaxing, about watching him beside Ivar, who said he might be surprised.

He is not prepared for the boy to stop on his way past and hold out his hands to him. “Skate with me.”

He shakes his head, replies in his halting fashion of speaking Igor's language, still only capable of thinking in his own. “I don't. I fell through, when I was younger than you, the ice broke under me and my brother.”

He sees Igor frown, wondering if he missed something.

“No, not Ivar. Our older brother Ubbe.”

Who will never embrace him, ever again, who believes that he is dead. This is of course lost on Igor and he could never communicate it anyway. Undeterred, he tugs on Hvitserk's sleeve.

“Skate with me, please. I do not have a brother.”

 _I had four once_ , he thinks. He glances at the last that still wants to call him that, and Ivar nods as if to say, “Go on. It's a pond, not a lake.”

He pulls on the bone skates with trepidation, staying close to the edge at first, skidding around rather than sliding while Ivar pelts snow at him. The first stumble shakes him up, and then, when the surface doesn't crack beneath his weight, it becomes more fun, easier to gain speed until he's out of Ivar's range. Igor calls to him from further out, mimes falling to make him laugh and glides back to skate in circles around him, showing him how to do it a lot smoother, and then backwards, in case having mastered the basic principles he wanted that bit more of a challenge.

As it starts to get dark, he can't count how many times he's slipped or spat on the ice, but his ankles remain intact. Ivar's still too busy pissing himself at his most panicked lurch forward to throw any more snow. Hvitserk scrambles off onto solid ground and pushes him over, groaning.

They lie in companionable silence by the fire that night, Hvitserk nursing his bruises, until Igor has gone to sleep between them. After a look exchanged over his head, Hvitserk carries him to his bed and they move into Ivar's room. There Ivar takes his braces off, and he begins to drink for the pain, the odd dull twinge still making him grimace, things growing hazy and their conversation becoming more suggestive, argumentative, just stopping short of how ugly it can get.

He's unable to hide his aversion as Ivar describes his trysts with the Princess he's convinced is the image of his dead wife, remembering the throttled body on the bed, Baldur's malformed bones like an omen. He can sense when Ivar is on the edge, vulnerable to a dangerous lapse in judgement that will have its consequences, no matter how badly he'd like to be wrong. He can't stop him from seeing what he wants to see but he won't neglect to warn him that it's clear she's aware of any eyes on her, whatsoever.

“I don't agree. Why else would she leave a king's bed for a cripple? She's Freydis brought back to me, like you were. Are you saying I shouldn't trust you?”

“I'm saying she's Oleg's woman. No matter how she's witched you to believe otherwise.”

“You think _I'm_ being used? Tell me, how many times did Ubbe fuck you in your mouth?”

And that's a knife in the gut, deserved or not. He throws the rest of his drink down his throat, getting up with a bitter smile.

“Good night, Ivar.”

He bends to press his lips to his brother's cheek, swaying a little, almost overbalancing. Ivar catches him without a second thought, pulling him easily upright, reminding him Ivar's upper body is much, much stronger than his even though he has every other advantage. But it's been that long since they tested each other's strength with swords or axes he forgot not to get drawn in. The hands on his hips in that vice-like grip brings back Ivar often dominating him at his own skill, and the sudden, pleasurable clench in the stomach he would get instead of absolute frustration. He's about to instinctively wriggle out of them, showing him he doesn't need any help. Then Ivar's fingers slip down his side to lazily stroke his thigh, fit around it, thumb unmistakeably brushing his groin. He freezes, still not completely steady on his feet, looking down into Ivar's eyes as he murmurs, perhaps as an apology,

“He had no right to you.”

“But you must think you do, huh?” He replies, trying to keep his voice light, with a warning edge.

His brother shrugs, gloved hand opening and closing again on his hip. Just that gesture giving him the answer to that question. His legs feel even weaker, and he takes the option to lean on him, his hands on Ivar's neck, struggling to control his breathing, his trembling, the way his cock wants whatever Ivar is offering. For all the old jokes about Ivar's abilities, right now, it feels like he could fuck him hard, even harder than he needs to be, it makes his mouth run dry.

He squirms obviously without meaning to, having to react, eager to free himself. That appears to be what Ivar's waiting for, dragging him forward with a knowing smile, to undo the buckle of the belt around the long shirt. Flipping his belly again with his hand slowly, deliberately stealing up underneath. He can't suppress a stuttering breath at the palm pressed against his shaft, the nails curling around his waistband, digging into his skin. When Ivar tightens his grip, he briefly shuts his eyes, biting into his lip. When his hand lifts and hovers his cock twitches towards it through the cloth, straining to rut into something else besides his own fist. His thigh muscles contract as Ivar runs his tongue low across his stomach, almost, almost over the tip that's just poking out now but not quite.

Rather than watch his brother's every tempting move, he lets his head fall back, tugging at his hair, arching into him, trying to compel him like that. Ivar might find it amusing yet he concedes to pull his trousers down to his knees, breathing out in appreciation of how stiff he is for him, how fucking taut his balls are. He runs a finger over them, up and down his length. Hvitserk makes a grab for his wrist. Ivar grins as he smacks his hand away.

“I enjoy you so much, my brother.”

He wants to tell Ivar the same, that he feels alive with him even when they're threatening each other in earnest, especially then, and he can't help admire his younger brother, always, for his tactical brilliance, his determination, his resilience, for _walking_. If anyone had told him as a child that Ivar would walk on those legs one day he would have thought them touched by the gods. He remembers Ubbe again, seeking to sway him with, _I do not want to have to kill you. You're my little brother_ , and how he thought proudly _Ivar is mine but I don't patronise him like that_. In his idea of _Ivar_ , everything is mixed up, the hate, the exasperation, the fear, the love.

Those words, as ever, fail him. He forces himself to nod, pleadingly reaching out to squeeze his brother's jaw, instead, _please, please_. Finally he grunts at Hvitserk's lack of a retort, and strips his gloves off, picks him up and licks the vein, so sensitive he cries out.

Ivar's attention snaps towards the door, listening, and he hisses in through his nose, with his guard lowered by being alone with his brother he wasn't thinking about the possibility of them being overheard. He turns in the same direction, too quickly and falls this time without his support, hitting the floor. He feels hardly any pain, laying dazed on the ground, caged once again in Ivar's arms, Ivar coming after him, reminding him to be quiet.

He clutches at any part of him he can hold on to, both to pull him closer and ward him off. They start by thrusting against each other, foreheads touching, finish lying as if they already fought to the death together. His splayed legs incapable of moving again, Ivar panting out his last breaths from failing lungs. Like they could have been speared by the same blade until Ivar's hand lands upon his cheek.

“Hvitserk.”

“What?”

“Sleep here.”

“I need to get clean.”

“Then get clean.”

Ivar is asleep when he comes back undressed, having pulled himself up on the long, low seat with his crutch in reach and his hair undone. Hvitserk whispers to him, hand gentle on his shoulder, though Ivar would know him by his own hair falling down on his face, recognise him by his presence, his touch, his smell. He mutters something, motioning at his legs without opening his eyes and Hvitserk shifts them so he can sit there and lean against the side, feet crossed. Behind his lids the day they had is flashing, and there is this ache in him to spend forever like that, suspended in time; not caring if he ever accomplishes anything to compare to his brothers, not progressing any further along the path that lead him away from straying in the realms of the gods, right back to Ivar.


End file.
